


Compensation

by MiraMira



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Attraction, Coming Out, Gay Bar, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing Wally knows how to do, it's run.  Even from himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compensation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueManta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueManta/gifts).



> I'm sorry I couldn't give you your dream scenario, Iceland. But thank you for giving me the chance to look at these characters in a new light, and I hope it does work for you.

It isn't until his fifth dance partner turns out to have an Adam's apple, a lovely tenor voice, and pants designed to accentuate the pelvic region – just like the first four – that Wally takes a good look around and begins to suspect he should have asked for more details on this evening's excursion.

He walks over to the bar and taps his companion on the shoulder. “Uh, John? I'm not trying to criticize your taste in establishments, but have you noticed this club seems to be...missing something?”

Without looking up, John takes a long swig of beer.

“When I was in the Marines,” he says, just as Wally is about to check whether he's been heard over the music, “no matter where I was stationed, there was always a handful of guys who couldn't talk about anything but getting laid. When they'd last done it, the hottest or horniest or freakiest girls they'd been with, how many they were going to score while they were on leave...I swear, I'd have put tits on their guns if I thought it'd get them to focus during drills.”

“Not really seeing how this answers my question,” says Wally.

“Let me finish.” John drains his glass and signals the bartender – whose abs, Wally has to admit, would probably impress even Superman – for another round. “After a while, I started to realize that the loudest, most obnoxious ones never started the conversations. They just had to make sure everyone knew they'd been part of them. Even when they got obvious details wrong.”

Wally scratches his head, still struggling to follow the point of the narrative. “So they didn't want to admit they were lonely virgins. That's not a crime, is it?”

“'Course not,” says John. “Most of us were young, and none of us wanted to look weak. We all overcompensated somewhere. But – and this was the part that got me – when we would go on leave, the guys who seemed most desperate to prove themselves never came out drinking with the rest of us, or brought back any pictures. At least, not any that didn't look like they could've been clipped out of a magazine.”

The bartender returns with both John's beer and another chocolate martini for Wally, which he knocks back in a single gulp. With his metabolism, alcohol doesn't do much, but the sugar provides a bit of added buzz.

“So one night, I followed one of them,” John continues. “Kid named Dave Nelson or Nolan or something like that. Looked and talked like he stepped straight off a poster on the wall of an Iowa recruitment office. Guess where he led me.”

“A place like this?” Wally ventures.

John takes another swallow, then jerks his thumb back with his free hand. “This very place. In fact, that's him over there.”

Wally scans the crowd until he spots a square-jawed man with a blond buzzcut, a _Semper Fi_ tattoo adorning his bicep, and a decidedly non-regulation cut camo vest cozied up against one of the delicate-featured brunettes Wally mistakenly propositioned earlier. 

“Nice couple,” he says, turning back to John. “But you still haven't told me the moral of the story.”

A grimace crosses John's face. “Nothing,” he snaps. “There isn't one. I just thought maybe you'd get something out of it. Out of here. Out of having a night where you don't have to prove what a ladies' man you are.” He slams down his glass. “Guess I was wrong.”

Wally stands, shocked into absolute stillness for an eternity of five seconds as he absorbs first John's anger, then the import behind the words. “Wait. Are you accusing me of...of...overcompensating?”

“Who said anything about accusing?” John's anger seems spent. Now, as he stares at Wally, he merely sounds tired. Or perhaps even disappointed. “Like I tried to explain, you wouldn't be the first.”

In the dark, John's Lantern-lit eyes glow an even deeper green than usual. The scent of spice-accented aftershave mingled with sweat wafts across the bar, and maybe Wally is drunk after all, because a part of him wants nothing more than to lean forward and...

He runs.

By the time Wally's head clears enough to allow for rational thought, he finds himself surrounded by desert. A bemused gecko blinks up at him.

“What are you staring at?” he demands, and keeps right on going until he reaches home.

-

“T-Man!” The Flash zips up to the Watchtower's monitor station and leans an elbow on the console, not waiting for a response as he holds out his request form. “Listen, about this new rotation. I know we all need to be a little flexible, but my alter ego's run out of sick days, and the boss is starting to grumble about my work ethic. So if there's any way you could put me back on the night shift, at least until next month...”

“Denied.” 

The voice is not Mr. Terrific's. A black-gloved hand swats away the form, and Wally finds himself staring into the eyes of an angry Bat. “This is your fourth attempted schedule change in as many weeks. I checked the records. I checked the pattern, too. I haven't checked into what's going on between you and John, and I don't plan to, because I don't care. Fix it. Now.”

Wally gulps. “Yessir,” he starts to say, but Batman (who Wally still has trouble thinking of as _“Bruce,”_ especially at times like this) has already vanished. 

One of these days, Wally will figure out how he manages that trick without superpowers. For now, all he can do is glower at the empty space, feeling indignant, embarrassed...and yes, he has to admit, maybe just the slightest bit turned on.

He's caught himself acknowledging that last part a lot more frequently with a very different set of people than he's accustomed to since that night in the bar.

Wally lets out a long sigh. As usual, Bats is right. Time to face this problem like the hero he's supposed to be. He sprints off in search of John.

Half a minute later, after a thorough sweep of the Watchtower, he finds his quarry where he now realizes he should have checked first: the gym. Though as he watches John complete a one-handed curl with perfect form, it isn't hard to pinpoint the source of his reluctance.

Then John spots him. Ollie Queen, the only other person in the room, darts a glance at each of them in turn, then beats a quick and mercifully commentary-free retreat.

Wally rubs the back of his head nervously and fights off the urge to stare down at his boots. “Hey. So. Um. Sorry for sticking you with the bar tab.”

“You should be.” John's voice is deadpan as he sets down the barbell, but there is the tiniest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. “Those martinis of yours cost ten bucks a glass.”

If anyone can identify an escape route when he's standing in front of one, it's the Flash. All he has to do is say _“We cool?”,_ John will respond in the affirmative, and the subject will be as off-limits to further discussion as that one time Mxyzptlk turned them all into talking ponies.

Instead, he takes a seat on one of the weightlifting benches and struggles to corrall his thoughts into a coherent explanation. “Look,” he says at last. “I don't know what high school was like for you –”

John snorts. “Why do you think I joined the Marines the day I graduated?”

“Right.” With some reluctance, Wally jettisons his mental image of John in a football uniform, and files away a note to get the real biography some other time. “Well, when you're a skinny science nerd with hair that won't let you hide and a mouth that keeps getting ahead of your brain, you figure people already have enough reasons to mess with you. You don't need to give them more.” 

He notices his hands are shaking, and pauses briefly in an effort to bring the trembling to a halt before he vibrates through the floor. “So you make the jokes before anyone else can, and you face the jerks with a smile and some boxing moves, and there are... _things_ you just don't even let yourself think. Even if you have to keep reminding yourself and everyone else around you that you don't think them. Until all that's left is the reflex, and you can't remember why. Or what you were so scared of in the first place.”

“I guess, what I'm trying to say is...” he concludes, as he gets to his feet and forces himself to look John square in those arresting eyes, “I'm done overcompensating.”

Waiting has never been easy for Wally, but no seconds have ever dragged out as agonizingly as these. Worse, he doesn't think his abilities are the reason John is still sitting there, staring at him, unreadable. He heaves a sigh. “Okay, thanks for the therapy session. Guess you can add the martinis when you send me the bill.”

John stirs, rises, and maybe Wally's powers are working after all, because he can take in every fluid movement as John advances, leaving a few short inches of space between them. “Flash?”

“Yeah?” Wally breathes.

“Anyone ever tell you to quit while you're ahead?”

Before Wally can say another word, John closes the gap and kisses him. His lips are surprisingly soft, but the brush of his beard and mustache sends tantalizing prickles through Wally. Just as he starts to worry his knees are going to give, a strong arm wraps around his back, simultaneously steadying him and drawing him in closer.

Oh, yeah. He could _definitely_ get used to this.

“Sorry,” John says, pulling back, expression tinged with sudden concern. “I'm not usually this forward, I swear.”

“It's okay.” Wally can feel his grin shift from dazed to sly as he slides his own hand down John's back. “I'm not real good at taking things slow.”


End file.
